Who was the loneliest man in the world? It could be him. Despite that he tried to stay positive. It was about putting yourself out there, that's what his mom had said after dad left and slightly before mom became clinically depressed and obese and consumed four tubs of Death by Chocolate a week. And that was well before she drowned herself off the Malibu shores, which he wasn't sure but thought was some protest at first, but later assumed, because she watched movies non-stop on the disgusting stained white couch letting her female parts, fat and bloated, fall loose and hang so that he'd have to go into the tv room and tuck her back into herself when she snored through Letterman, that it was ultimately some poor delusional misguided gesture he'd never understand—drowning herself off Malibu, that is.
So he went to the Sandbar, cleverly named, and ordered a drink from the bartender. He sat and waited. There were no single women. He ordered another drink and the bartender slid a bowl of peanuts in front of him and he began to eat from these. He ate the entire bowl and looked up to see a single women leaving by herself. Shoot. He turned in his chair to see her go. She was pretty. Was she waiting there for him and he didn't do anything because he was so peanut-hungry. Shoot.
The bartender asked him if he wanted another and he didn't but it didn't really seem like a question so Bob the Photographer ended up with another beer in front of him.
Finally there was a person sitting there by herself that he could say in his well-practiced voice, "Excuse me ma'am, I couldn't help but notice you look as if you're in the mood for me to buy you a drink," Bob by the Photographer said not quite how he had practiced it.
The end of the bar woman looked at him as if he'd just asked her to divide twelve thousand eight hundred fifty one by seven. "What?"
"Um, well, you see. I was sitting over there and I looked at you and it seemed like you maybe looked at me too and I was wondering to myself maybe that meant I should go ask her if I can buy her a drink or you know, why would you be here if you didn't want me to buy you a drink?"
"Is that a question?"
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"Can you just give me the money?"
"Well, I suppose, but that really, you know, doesn't quite, that's."
Photographer Bob gave her five dollars and she walked to the cigarette machine in the entryway and kicked it and left the bar. Photographer Bob heard the barman laugh and walked to the pool table. There was a pretty girl and a fat girl.
To the fat girl he said, "Hi, my name's Bob, can I buy drink, for you."
"Suck my clit Bob. Ok? How about that for your drink?"
"Sam, wow. Relax. Bob, you can buy me a drink, would you like to buy me a drink, Bob?" she asked him like he was her five-year old cousin.
The bartender ignored him for a good six minutes and 40 seconds—he kept track on his watch.
"What?"
"I want to buy the cute brunette a drink."
"Who are you?"
Bob was confused by the question. "I'm Bob," he said, "the photographer. Who are you?"
"Don't fucking ask me who I am!"
"Well, why can you do all the asking of me and I can't reply, in like, the question, you know, you asked of me, just now?"
"Cause I'm Fred the fucking freakshow!"
Bob the photographer was confused and perhaps Fred was too, because they stared at each other and Fred had a stunned look as if Bob had asked him to multiply several long esoteric numbers together. The girls were gone when he returned.
